


In Which “The Lady or the Tiger” is Played Out with Differences

by a tattered rose (atr)



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-31
Updated: 2010-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-26 06:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atr/pseuds/a%20tattered%20rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Helen leaves the lab for a night of Edwardian society.  Enter Tesla, with a rather interesting proposition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which “The Lady or the Tiger” is Played Out with Differences

**Author's Note:**

  * For [palmaceae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/palmaceae/gifts).



> Written for palmaceae as part of LJ's sanctuary_santa exchange, 2010.

Christmas 1905  
   
=  
   
Helen Magnus stood in the royal ballroom, feeling rather like a glorious statue given life for the evening. In part this was due to her formal attire: Helen had long been one to nod to the current fashion and then please herself, but tonight she was indulging the particular request of Kind Edward to act the crowning jewel of his beloved Marlborough Set. Her corset was laced to just this side of asphyxiation, padded out by layers of taffeta and organdy to create perfect S curves of her already tall and upright form. The asymmetric bell curve of her skirt trailed behind her, limiting how easily she could turn – the general annoyance and mess associated by trains had already put them out of favour in the highest circles, except for tonight when the indoor party and superior extravagance of the celebration led to a resurgence in nostalgia. Her hair was piled high in ringlets, the ends feathering down into the silky sable adorning her collar – itself half masking the collar of rubies and diamonds on her throat in a tantalizing game of hide and seek.  
   
How impractical it would be if she were compelled to dress in this manner every day! How tedious, to spend half her hours dressing or planning the details of her next large party. She couldn't have borne it, and knew she would return to her lab and her work the next day with fresh appreciation for the freedom and intellectual excitement she had won for herself.  
   
Yet the very fact of the ridiculousness of the evening made her appreciate every excessive detail. The enforced stiffness of her posture and movements made her feel regal, as if a child, once more, playing dress-up in her mother's things. The company filling the room was not trivial, but lively, witty minds cultivated by the favour of His Royal Highness, friends and acquaintances best for an evening but for an evening very good, and most of whom she had not seen in far too long. She even looked forwards to a chat with His Highness himself – his policies might value parties over true progress, but he doted on her mind even more than her figure, and with his flattery had more than once allowed her favours granted to none other.  
   
Turning slowly to take in the sight of the large hall, sparkling with enough candles to mimic day now, then dim to an evening glow when the wicks burned low, the buffet caught her eye. Small canapes of what was sure to be the finest imported morsels rested like jewels along one wall, and her mouth began to water at the change from her practical sandwiches even as her brain attempted to calculate whether there was enough time before dinner to have bits of peach and quail now. She had just decided that there was (and that anyway, dinner was sure to be a long, drawn out affair with plenty of time for digesting) when she felt someone standing so close behind her that they must be treading on her skirt. Miffed at the impertinence, she was reaching down to tug at the material when a familiar voice murmured past her ear.  
   
“I had no idea the Good King Ostentatious was having this much success with his... preferences. You should have written my dear, or better yet sent a photograph. I would have returned years ago.” As he spoke he slipped up to her side.  
   
“Nikola,” she replied, voice a little flatter than she felt. In truth she was glad to see him, he had been out of the country for several years, and having not heard from him in months, this was an unexpected, but welcome, reunion. Except that this was Nikola Tesla, and encouraging him was never wise. “Last I heard you were in... Colorado, was it not?”  
   
His only response was a smile, wide with self-satisfaction. His experiments were going well, then. He looked well also, his unfashionably thin frame accentuated by a pristine suit of the latest cut. His mustache was a touch old fashioned, many of the men were going about clean shaven, but she doubted he would sacrifice that accessory even for societal approval; he claimed it was distinguished, but really she suspected the ever-present facial hair was a testament to how young he felt he looked without it.  
   
“Fancy a turn around the room, or does that getup prevent you from moving?” He offered her an elbow and a twinkle, and she sighed over how easy he made it to follow his suggestions, both inside and outside of the lab.  
   
They walked slowly, stopping, here and there, for a word, and nodding to those who were already engaged in conversation, or those whom were waiting until Helen was herself unengaged.  
   
“I suppose you are in town for Bolton's conference?” she inquired, as they walked away from the chef, whose skills had brought fame, fortune, and society.  
   
“Of course,” he replied, the hint of a scowl quickly smoothed away. “I don't mind him taking credit for my helpful suggestions, but welching on a promise is inexcusable – he'll deliver my lightbulbs or I'll have his patents.”  
   
“I would have thought you could have established your own factory by now. America, I am told, is ripe for development.”  
   
She kept her eyes forwards, even as she felt him looking at her with his peculiar intensity. None of them were ever really sure what Nikola was up to these days. Ever since she had met him, he had been one to disappear into his projects, appearing only when finished, or when they rousted him from his rooms to continue their joint investigations.  
   
Finally, in a voice so low she had to strain to catch it, he replied “And develop it will.” There was a promise in his tones she would investigate later, though this was not the time.  
   
A small orchestra bowed in low pitch, creating a static underlay to the rumble of voices marking the early evening socialization. It was impossible to be overheard, yet Nikola still leaned closer than necessary, so that even the most mundane observation must have appeared scandalously intimate to any observer. Lucky her admirers had bestowed on her the status of a married woman, free to flirt as she chose, or she would have risked the bother of being clipped entirely. A situation which would be better for her work, but cause political troubles she could ill-afford, with the Sanctuary still in development.  
   
He stuck by her side until dinner, when she made it clear that she had some business to take care of that would not be aided by his presence. In return he'd grinned, a crowd of teeth glinting even without his fangs.  
   
In fact her business was minimal, a word here and handshake there set up conversations that would happen later, over long teas and leisurely morning visits. What she had wanted was to free herself from his company. He was never an easy man to spend time with, though she herself enjoyed his cutting quips and verbal play in and amongst the brilliant deductions. Tonight, however, he was behaving much too... _normal_ , without mention of any experiments that she didn't herself bring up, and even his insults were softened. Whatever game he was playing, it was putting her on edge. Even now, though she could not see him, she could feel his eyes on her and thus found even chatting with her oldest friend as much trial as pleasure.  
   
She only began to relax after dinner, when the party began fragmenting into more intimate groups. The dancers remained in the Great Hall, where the orchestra now played with energy, the gamers had gone off to smoke over the card tables, and the intellectuals and flirts were situating themselves amongst the seating in a few of the showier rooms. Needing some air, she excused herself from her own circle and stepped out onto a balcony. The air was crisp, a few flakes of snow floating down on the manicured lawns. The windows to the Hall had been thrown open, releasing the music, but not the voices.  
   
Again, she felt him before she heard him. They had run formal experiments, but Helen had long wondered if the Source Blood in their veins did not link them together in a fundamental way, calling to itself even between bodies.  
   
“Why are you really here, Nikola?” She didn't move from her position at the balcony as slow (hesitant?) steps crossed to her side. When his hand came to rest beside hers she stared at it, the long lean fingers capable of such delicacy, but also such surprising and confident strength. Abnormal strength.  
   
“Lonely, I suppose. Exciting as its prospects are, the American West hardly provides fit company.”  
   
“For a man of your intellect,” she supplied.  
   
“For a man of any intellect,” he corrected, a testy edge to his voice which once again vanished as quickly as it had come. “It's a country of children, still acting wild now that they're out from under Mother's thumb. We were wild ourselves,” he looked over at her, more serious than she was used to see him. “Remember our first years at Cambridge?”  
   
Helen could not help but smile. The excessive liquor had been typical of their class, even if the subject of their conversations had often not been. Often they gathered in one of the boy's rooms, because it was tricky for her, a woman, to join them at the local pubs, but there were still many a night that saw them wandering through campus, calling out loudly and scribbling garbled equations on anonymous bits of masonry.  
   
“That was a long time ago, Nikola,” she said, gently.  
   
He nodded. “And it's been more than 20 years since John... disappeared.” The delicacy was unusual for him. For the most part he reveled in Watson's blindness, the slap in the face The Five felt upon discovering one of their own was the greatest scourge of the era, committing atrocities right under their noses. His care, however, stung even sharper than his offhand remarks. Two decades later and the betrayal was still an open wound in her breast. The man she had known, had loved, shattered by the monster he had proved to hold inside. Even if she managed to forget him, for one day, she could never forget about her pregnancy, the infant locked in stasis always in her heart and mind. The small life that would never cry or laugh, because painful as the situation was, she would never, ever, place her baby in a world where Jack the Ripper might still roam free.  
   
“That changes nothing.”  
   
“Only by your choice.”  
   
“Nikola,” she growled in warning, suddenly very sure where this was going.  
   
His hand moved to cover hers, the barest of touches. “I'm not asking you to come back to America with me, unless you'd like to. Watson can handle this Sanctuary; from what I've seen America could desperately use one of its own.”  
   
“I'm quite happy where I am, thank you.”  
   
“Is it Watson, then? We always wondered if you wouldn't-”  
   
She pulled her hand out from under his and slapped him. It was none of his business what she did, or didn't do, or who she did it with. It was particularly impudent for him to address her like this when _he'd_ been the one to disappear for so long.  
   
For a second, after she struck him, his eyes went black and claws closed around her wrist, before he got himself under control and dabbed at his lip with his handkerchief.  
   
“I merely meant, my dear, that your friends are concerned you may be missing out on the joys of life because of one bad romance.”  
   
She stared at her wrist, impressions from his fingers slowly fading from view. Joys, indeed. The era was remarkable for its toleration of dalliances – so long as they were kept tastefully quiet – and she had taken advantage of her special status to take more than one lover. And she had long been curious about what Nikola could bring to the... bedroom.... After all, vampires had gone down in history as great romantic creations, but they were no longer widely available for experimentation. On the other hand, this was Nikola Tesla, who had for years liked her a bit too much and who never stood still long enough for all the pieces to fall into place.  
   
He was waiting for her to speak. “Oh, I wouldn't say that.” She looked back over the grounds, resting her heated wrist on the cool granite.  
   
The next moment she was in the corner, out of view of the doorway. Nikola was a hair's breadth away, boxing her in with a promise, rather than literal force. He was taking long, slow breaths, not exactly steady, and his pupils were blown wide, quivering as if they were ready to take over his entire sclera. He wasn't touching her, and through all the layers of material it wouldn't matter if he was, but she could almost feel him anyway, warm stretch of muscle an achingly desired change from the rigid inorganic lines of the corset and the dead weight of all the fabric.  
   
“My rooms are quite spectacular.”  
   
There was wine on his breath, deep and tangy. When he opened his mouth her eyes were drawn to the teeth that would become long and sharp, and she licked at her lips. How many inside would run at the sight, and how few could command them as she was (fairly sure) her influence extended?  
   
“And your offer?” She sounded rather out of breath, which she would ascribe to the surprise and her maid's tight lacing, though they were both aware it stemmed from another cause.  
   
He shrugged, a precise lift and fall in one cultured sweep. “I am entirely at your command.” His arms moved to the wall at either side of her, leaving them an instant from an embrace as he waited for her answer.  
   
Helen glanced him over, gaze raking over his features to meet his eyes. Their relationship had always been one of challenges, set and met, parried and rebuffed. There was challenge now in the angle of his brow, but there was something else as well; a seriousness she only knew from the fading tail of endless nights and quiet moments when they found themselves subdued and alone.  
   
She wanted him, for the night. But what had been a poor idea in university was a poor idea now, especially with his unknown response come morning. Yet he could hardly be as attached as she had long ago feared him to be, and he would be gone from the country in a few days in any case. It came down to the choice, which aspect of his personality to trust.  
   
Sleep with him tonight, or refuse his first overt overture for what was likely to be the last time?  
   
He licked his lips as she inhaled shakily and opened her mouth to answer...


End file.
